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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24869170">translations</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/youremynumberone/pseuds/youremynumberone'>youremynumberone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>SEVENTEEN (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Carly Rae Jepsen - Freeform, Friends With Benefits, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:33:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,802</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24869170</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/youremynumberone/pseuds/youremynumberone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Seungkwan and Hansol have been sleeping with each other for a long time. Every time they’re done, Hansol gets up and leaves. One night, he gets up but doesn’t go.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Boo Seungkwan &amp; Chwe Hansol | Vernon, Boo Seungkwan/Chwe Hansol | Vernon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>145</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>translations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>THEY ARE GASPING, quiet, in the dark, as the tornadoes of violet that had washed from their limbs through their toes subside, spiral into mere sweat, sticky and sweet. Bodies now gone completely slack, it takes them another minute of rest and loud breathing.</p><p>And then Hansol rises and props himself up with his elbows. </p><p>“Water?” He asks, but he is already getting up and heading into Seungkwan’s kitchen. </p><p>Seungkwan stays still, lying on the floor of his bedroom, letting the cool of the tiles chill every inch of his damp, fevered skin.</p><p>From across the door, in the dim of the kitchen, he could hear Hansol moving around. Could hear the footsteps of his bare feet. The sound of the refrigerator being opened. Water pouring into a glass. Seungkwan closes his eyes and wills the whole world into silence. He could clearly make out the sound of Hansol drinking water. It’s routine now: he drinks, he dresses, he leaves. Still, it hurts. Profoundly. Somewhere a little below his chest. Unlocatable, but there. Just there.</p><p> </p><p>WHEN HANSOL WALKS back into the room with a glass of water, Seungkwan is already dressed and is sitting on his mattress on the floor. </p><p>“You’re dressed,” Hansol notes. And Seungkwan nods, imagines being able to tell Hansol that he can stay the night, to say, <em> Come here </em>. To have him close, close, close. All to himself.</p><p>He puts on his sweatpants, but doesn’t approach Seungkwan. He is so far away.</p><p>How embarrassing is love, when it all goes wrong. </p><p>“We should t-”</p><p>“What’s that-”</p><p>They speak at the same time, voices colliding on top of each other. Seungkwan swallows, permits a glance. Hansol is leaning on Seungkwan’s ancient dresser, bare shoulder pressed into the cheap wood. A hand holding the glass of water. </p><p>Seungkwan wonders if it’s for him.</p><p>“You first,” Seungkwan says in English. He learned that one. Because Hansol is <em> always first </em>.</p><p>“Oh,” Hansol clears his throat, and then shakes his head a little. “Nah, I just remembered this song you were asking Josh to translate some days ago.”</p><p>Seungkwan blinks. He had forgotten about that; didn’t even know Hansol had heard or even noticed. </p><p>He was simply scrolling through the new releases on Spotify when he saw the song. Liked this artist, knew her from Hansol himself. Liked how it sounded, but didn’t understand most of the words, as it was in English. He had been with Joshua and Hansol that day, another one of those days he had to camouflage his desire for a person into wanting to learn a language. Shapeshifted his longing into multilinguality. </p><p>Joshua searched for the lyrics, read through it, and simply glanced at Seungkwan. And then to Hansol. </p><p>He had whispered then, “Ask Hansol to translate this for you.”</p><p>Seungkwan remembered how far away Hansol had looked that day. And the past few days. How he had refused to meet Seungkwan’s eyes, but also how when he did meet his gaze, there was an unknowable quality in them. There is a certain kind of transparency in Hansol’s face, always, open and bare, but that day, Seungkwan could read nothing. Nothing but a question that can’t be formed, mouth slightly agape, thoughts left unarticulated.</p><p>He simply shook his head then, grabbing his phone and staring at the foreign words. Joshua’s gaze at him burning, knew he could see the wordless hurt in Seungkwan’s quiet. </p><p>Anybody who would look at the way Seungkwan looks at Hansol would know. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“YEAH? IT’S NOTHING,” Seungkwan says.</p><p>“Let me see,” Hansol crosses the distance and squats in front of the mattress. His shirt is still across them, crumpled on the floor. He should be going now. </p><p>The room is dark and the solitary glow of the moon slicing in through the windows is the only source of light. But Seungkwan sees clearly; he could reach out his arm and touch Hansol’s face. </p><p><em> Oh, to be near you </em>. “It’s just a stupid song.”</p><p>Hansol scoots closer and laughs. A low, disarming chuckle.</p><p>“Come on,” he says, as sweet as sweet could get, and Seungkwan knows all resolve to deny Hansol of anything is gone. </p><p>He swallows, takes his phone and it glows wild and solid, illuminating both their faces. He dims it before keying in the song, fingers shaking a little, as he looks up the song and hands it to Hansol. </p><p>Hansol puts the glass of water down. He sits on the floor, looks at the screen, then at Seungkwan. Smiles that lopsided one, <em> that one </em>.</p><p>Here, in his cramped bedroom, in the small hour of the night, Seungkwan is completely breathless imagining the vast conspiracy of minor miracles and bets that made it so he gets to listen to Carly Rae Jepsen with Hansol.</p><p>The song starts to play.</p><p>
  <em>Thinkin’ that I need you to go now</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cause this could really get out of hand </em>
</p><p>He pauses the song and translates the words to Seungkwan in Korean, “It says... I think I need to go now because this could really get out of hand.”</p><p>Seungkwan lets the words wash over him and swallows. The song picks up again.</p><p>
  <em>I'm hiding things I don’t wanna show now</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cause I don't know if you're ready for that </em>
</p><p>He doesn’t pause the song for a few more lines, just listens. Then he rewinds the song a bit. </p><p>A split second of silence as he stops, tries to find the right words in their language.</p><p>“Everything about you is speeding up my heartbeat,” Hansol says in Korean, looking straight into Seungkwan’s eyes. </p><p>Oh? Seungkwan hums, pretends to nod.</p><p>
  <em>And I don't wanna tell you</em>
</p><p>
  <em> You're better off without me </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 'Cause everything about you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Is speedin' up my, speedin' up my, speedin' up my, speedin' up my </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Heartbeat </em>
</p><p>There should be a word for how this makes Seungkwan feel. Like he is drifting on a boat and the wind stops suddenly. Like he is floating in space and is listening to air hissing out of his spacesuit, counting down his last breaths. How much does he have left?</p><p>Hansol stops the song again. Seungkwan holds his breath. Not a lot, he thinks. </p><p>“Everything’s a little bit clearer, how my body feels in your hands,” he translates. Seungkwan feels Hansol’s eyes on his own face, but can’t bear to look at him, can’t bear to comprehend and accept just what the words mean. </p><p>“It makes me want to get a little bit nearer, but I don’t know if you’re ready for that,” Hansol continues. Enunciating each word slowly. As if to make sure Seungkwan gets that.</p><p>He does. </p><p>And it makes Seungkwan look up. Finds courage, finds help in the music.</p><p>“But I don’t know if you’re ready for that,” Seungkwan repeats, parrots the Korean words back to Hansol, who is looking at him with a steady gaze.</p><p>
  <em>I thought I'd never feel this way, but I do</em>
</p><p>“I thought I’d never feel this way, but I do,” Hansol says in English this time, eyes not leaving Seungkwan’s. And amid the lack of understanding for the foreign words, Seungkwan listens, Seungkwan feels like he understands.</p><p>“But I do,” Seungkwan says, in the language that he knows, voice small, mostly to himself. But Hansol hears it. He hears it.</p><p>There is something urgent and unnatural in what they are doing, trapped in this moment. Hansol is still half-naked, still winded, and Seungkwan is fully clothed, but naked and vulnerable, exposing this colossal wound, his tender ache. It throbs, endlessly. For want to be seen.</p><p>The song goes on and on, and then quiets before it swells.</p><p>
  <em>I'm suddenly scared of my feelings</em>
</p><p>
  <em> This might be all I ever wanted </em>
</p><p>
  <em> All I ever wanted to happen to me, to me, to me</em>
</p><p>“This might be all I ever wanted,” Hansol says, and he is smiling now, as he looks back down at the lyrics and meets Seungkwan’s eyes when he says, “All I ever wanted to happen to me.”</p><p>
  <em>You've been like a light</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Like a light</em>
</p><p>“Say that again,” Seungkwan demands. </p><p>A memory: Joshua whispering to Seungkwan. Ask Hansol to translate this for you. The look in his eyes then as he glanced from the phone displaying the lyrics to Seungkwan and then to Hansol. <em> Ah </em>.</p><p>“This might be all I ever wanted,” Hansol says again, first in Korean. And then in English, firmer, with intent now: “All I ever wanted to happen to me.</p><p>Seungkwan smiles, feels himself lose all the air in his lungs but says it anyway, forms the foreign words in his own tongue: “All I ever wanted to happen.”</p><p>
  <em>Speedin' up my, speedin' up my, speedin' up my, speedin' up my</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Heartbeat </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Heartbeat </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Heartbeat</em>
</p><p>“Say it one more time,” it’s Hansol who asks this time. Grinning. In the dark of the room, his smile is a lighthouse.</p><p>“You’re all I ever wanted to happen to me,” Seungkwan says in the language they both understand. Familiar. Like it had been at the tip of his tongue and was only awaiting permission. Like it had been spoken many times before. Just not with the right words. </p><p>Not yet. Until now.</p><p>“Do you mean that?” Hansol asks, a tremble in his question. </p><p>Seungkwan stares at him in disbelief. </p><p>How even more embarrassing is love, then, when it goes right. When it is permitted and answered and is made whole by language. How embarrassing the sound of it. The truth of it. Seungkwan rolls his eyes and can’t help but laugh. A moment ago, he was about to ask Hansol to leave. And then beg him not to.</p><p>Sometimes the heart doesn’t die even when it’s supposed to. Past its limit, its expiration date. </p><p>The song is over.</p><p>It’s real because it survives.</p><p>“All I want,” Seungkwan tries, nervously, this time in English. To love is to see the world through the eyes of the beloved: simply that the night is black, the sky tomorrow is blue. To speak his tongue, so Seungkwan keeps trying: “is...me to you.”</p><p>And then Hansol lights up completely, blindingly, and laughs, loud and full, lightly and lifelong, as he falls over and falls flush straight into Seungkwan’s arms, down onto the single, solitary mattress, in the dark of the room, repeating Seungkwan’s broken English over and over again, full of fondness and something they still don’t have a name for, bodies touching, rubbing skin to skin, fingers on fingers: me to you, me and you, me, you.</p><p>And in their commotion, the glass of water on the floor topples over and it spills, spills, spills. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.” </em>
</p><p>- Roland Barthes</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For my friend, Bianca. Happy birthday! </p><p>Thank you for reading, thank you Carly Rae Jepsen!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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